In a few minutes more they were walking in deep darkness and silence,side by side, along the path, which diverging from the mill-road,penetrates the coppice of that sequestered gorge, along the bottom ofwhich flows a tributary brook that finds its way a little lower down intothe mill-stream. This deep gully in character a good deal resemblesRedman's Glen, into which it passes, being fully as deep, and wooded tothe summit at both sides, but much steeper and narrower, and thereforemany shades darker.

They had now reached those rude stone steps, some ten or fifteen innumber, which conduct the narrow footpath up a particularly steepacclivity, and here Lake lost courage again, for they distinctly heardthe footsteps that paced the platform above.

CHAPTER XVIII.

MARK WYLDER'S SLAVE.

Nearly two hours had passed before they returned. As they did so, RachelLake went swiftly and silently before her brother. The moon had gonedown, and the glen was darker than ever. Noiselessly they re-entered thelittle hall of Redman's Farm. The candles were still burning in thesitting-room, and the light was dazzling after the profound darkness inwhich they had been for so long.

Captain Lake did not look at all like a London dandy now. His dress wasconfoundedly draggled; the conventional countenance, too, was wanting.There was a very natural savagery and dejection there, and a wild leer inhis yellow eyes.

Rachel sat down. No living woman ever showed a paler face, and she staredwith a look that was sharp and stern upon the wainscot before her.

For some minutes they were silent; and suddenly, with an exceeding bittercry, she stood up, close to him, seizing him in her tiny hands by thecollar, and with wild eyes gazing into his, she said--

'See what you've brought me to--wretch, wretch, wretch!'

And she shook him with violence as she spoke. It was wonderful how thatfair young face could look so terrible.

'There, Radie, there,' said Lake, disengaging her fingers. 'You're alittle hysterical, that's all. It will be over in a minute; but don'tmake a row. You're a good girl, Radie. For Heaven's sake, don't spoil allby folly now.'

He was overawed and deprecatory.

'A slave! only think--a slave! Oh frightful, frightful! Is it a dream? Ohfrightful, frightful! Stanley, Stanley, it would be _mercy_ to kill me,'she broke out again.

'Now, Radie, listen to reason, and don't make a noise; you know weagreed, _you_ must go, and _I can't_ go with you.'

Lake was cooler by this time, and his sister more excited than beforethey went out.

'I used to be brave; my courage I think is gone; but who'd have imaginedwhat's before me?'

Stanley walked to the window and opened the shutter a little. He forgothow dark it was. The moon had gone down. He looked at his watch and thenat Rachel. She was sitting, and in no calmer state; serene enough inattitude, but the terribly wild look was unchanged. He looked at hiswatch again, and held it to his ear, and consulted it once more before heplaced the tiny gold disk again in his pocket.

'This won't do,' he muttered.

With one of the candles in his hand he went out and made a hurried,peeping exploration, and soon, for the rooms were quickly counted inRedman's Farm, he found her chamber small, neat, _simplex munditiis_.Bright and natty were the chintz curtains, and the little toilet set out,not inelegantly, and her pet piping-goldfinch asleep on his perch, withhis bit of sugar between the wires of his cage; her pillow so white andunpressed, with its little edging of lace. Were slumbers sweet as of oldever to know it more? What dreams were henceforward to haunt it? Shadowswere standing about that lonely bed already. I don't know whether StanleyLake felt anything of this, being very decidedly of the earth earthy. Butthere are times when men are translated from their natures, and forced tobe romantic and superstitious.

When he came back to the drawing-room, a toilet bottle of _eau decologne_ in his hand, with her lace handkerchief he bathed her templesand forehead. There was nothing very brotherly in his look as he peeredinto her pale, sharp features, during the process. It was the dark andpallid scrutiny of a familiar of the Holy Office, bringing a victim backto consciousness.

She was quickly better.

'There, don't mind me,' she said sharply; and getting up she looked downat her dress and thin shoes, and seeming to recollect herself, she tookthe candle he had just set down, and went swiftly to her room.

Gliding without noise from place to place, she packed a small blackleather bag with a few necessary articles. Then changed her dressquickly, put on her walking boots, a close bonnet and thick veil, andtaking her purse, she counted over its contents, and then standing in themidst of the room looked round it with a great sigh, and a strange look,as if it was all new to her. And she threw back her veil, and goinghurriedly to the toilet, mechanically surveyed herself in the glass. Andshe looked fixedly on the pale features presented to her, and said--

'Rachel Lake, Rachel Lake! what are you now?'

And so, with knitted brows and stern lips, a cadaveric gaze was returnedon her from the mirror.

A few minutes later her brother, who had been busy down stairs, put hishead in and asked--

'Will you come with me now, Radie, or do you prefer to wait here?'

'I'll stay here--that is, in the drawing-room,' she answered, and theface was withdrawn.

In the little hall Stanley looked again at his watch, and getting quietlyout, went swiftly through the tiny garden, and once upon the mill-road,ran at a rapid pace down towards the town.

The long street of Gylingden stretched dim and silent before him. Slumberbrooded over the little town, and his steps sounded sharp and hollowamong the houses. He slackened his pace, and tapped sharply at the littlewindow of that modest post-office, at which the young ladies in the ponycarriage had pulled up the day before, and within which Luke Waggot waswont to sleep in a sort of wooden box that folded up and appeared to be achest of drawers all day. Luke took care of Mr. Larkin's dogs, andgroomed Mr. Wylder's horse, and 'cleaned up' his dog-cart, for Mark beingclose about money, and finding that the thing was to be done more cheaplythat way, put up his horse and dog-cart in the post-office premises, andso evaded the livery charges of the 'Brandon Arms.'

But Luke was not there; and Captain Lake recollecting his habits and hishaunt, hurried on to the 'Silver Lion,' which has its gable towards thecommon, only about a hundred steps away, for distances are not great inGylingden. Here were the flow of soul and of stout, long pipes, longyarns, and tolerably long credits; and the humble scapegraces of the townresorted thither for the pleasures of a club-life, and often revelleddeep into the small hours of the morning.

So Luke came forth.

D-- it, where's the note?' said the captain, rummaging uneasily in hispockets.

'You know me--eh!'

'Captain Lake. Yes, Sir.'

'Well--oh! here it is.'

It was a scrap pencilled on the back of a letter--

'LUKE WAGGOT,

'Put the horse to and drive the dog-cart to the "White House." Look outfor me there. We must catch the up mail train at Dollington. Be lively.If Captain Lake chooses to drive you need not come.

'M. WYLDER.'

'I'll drive,' said Captain Lake. 'Lose no time and I'll give youhalf-a-crown.'

Luke stuck on his greasy wideawake, and in a few minutes more thedog-cart was trundled out into the lane, and the horse harnessed, wentbetween the shafts with that wonderful cheerfulness with which they bearto be called up under startling circumstances at unseasonable hours.

'Easily earned, Luke,' said Captain Lake, in his soft tones.

The captain had buttoned the collar of his loose coat across his face,and it was dark beside. But Luke knew his peculiar smile, and presumedit; so he grinned facetiously as he put the coin in his breeches pocketand thanked him; and in another minute the captain, with a lighted cigarbetween his lips, mounted to the seat, took the reins, the horse boundedoff, and away rattled the light conveyance, sparks flying from the road,at a devil of a pace, down the deserted street of Gylingden, and quicklymelted in darkness.

That night a spectre stood by old Tamar's bedside, in shape of her youngmistress, and shook her by the shoulder, and stooping, said sternly,close in her face--

'Tamar, I'm going away--only for a few days; and mind this--I'd rather be_dead_ than any creature living should know it. Little Margery must notsuspect--you'll manage that. Here's the key of my bed-room--say I'msick--and you must go in and out, and bring tea and drinks, and talk andwhisper a little, you understand, as you might with a sick person, andkeep the shutters closed; and if Miss Brandon sends to ask me to theHall, say I've a headache, and fear I can't go. You understand meclearly, Tamar?'

'Yes, Miss Radie,' answered old Tamar, wonder-stricken, with a strangeexpression of fear in her face.

'And listen,' she continued, 'you must go into my room, and bring themessage back, as if from me, with _my love_ to Miss Brandon; and if sheor Mrs. William Wylder, the vicar's wife, should call to see me, alwayssay I'm asleep and a little better. You see exactly what I mean?'

'Yes, Miss,' answered Tamar, whose eyes were fixed in a sort offascination, full on those of her mistress.

'If Master Stanley should call, he is to do just as he pleases. You usedto be accurate, Tamar; may I depend upon you?'

When the light wheels of the dog-cart gritted on the mill-road before thelittle garden gate of Redman's Farm, the tall slender figure of RachelLake was dimly visible, standing cloaked and waiting by it. Silently shehanded her little black leather bag to her brother, and then there was apause. He stretched his hand to help her up.

In a tone that was icy and bitter, she said--

'To save myself I would not do it. You deserve no love from me--you'veshowed me none--_never_, Stanley; and yet I'm going to give the mostdesperate proof of love that ever sister gave--all for your sake; andit's guilt, guilt, but my _fate_, and I'll go, and you'll never thank me;that's all.'

In a moment more she sat beside him; and silent as the dead in Charon'sboat, away they glided toward the 'White House which lay upon the highroad to Dollington.

The sleepy clerk that night in the Dollington station stamped twofirst-class tickets for London, one of which was for a gentleman, and theother for a cloaked lady, with a very thick veil, who stood outside onthe platform; and almost immediately after the scream of the engine washeard piercing the deep tatting, the Cyclopean red lamps glared nearerand nearer, and the palpitating monster, so stupendous and so docile,came smoothly to a stand-still before the trelliswork and hollyhocks ofthat pretty station.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TARN IN THE PARK.

Next morning Stanley Lake, at breakfast with the lawyer, said--

'A pretty room this is. That bow window is worth all the pictures inBrandon. To my eye there is no scenery so sweet as this, at least tobreakfast by. I don't love your crags and peaks and sombre grandeur, noryet the fat, flat luxuriance of our other counties. These undulations,and all that splendid timber, and the glorious ruins on that hillock overthere! How many beautiful ruins that picturesque old fellow Cromwell hasleft us.'

'Ah, thank you; I'm a bad breakfaster; that is,' said Stanley,recollecting that he had made some very creditable meals at the sametable, 'when I smoke so late as I did last night.'

'You drove Mr. Wylder to Dollington?'

'Yes; he's gone to town, he says--yes, the mail train--to get somediamonds for Miss Brandon--a present--that ought to have come the daybefore yesterday. He says they'll never have them in time unless he goesand blows them up. Are you in his secrets at all?'

'Something in his confidence, I should hope,' said Mr. Larkin, in rathera lofty and reserved way.

'Oh, yes, of course, in serious matters; but I meant other things. Youknow he has been a little bit wild; and ladies, you know, ladies will betroublesome sometimes; and to say truth, I don't think the diamonds havemuch to say to it.'

'Oh?--hem!--well, you know, _I_'m not exactly the confidant Mr. Wylderwould choose, I suspect, in a case of that very painful, and, I will say,distressing character--I rather think--indeed, I _hope_ not.'

'No, of course--I dare say--but I just fancied he might want a hint aboutthe law of the matter.'

The gracious attorney glanced at his guest with a thoroughlybusiness-like and searching eye.

'_I?_--Oh, dear, no. Wylder has always been very reserved with me. Hetold me nothing. If he had, of course I should not have mentioned it. Ionly conjecture, for he really did seem to have a great deal more on hismind; and he kept me walking back and forward, near the mill-road, aprecious long time. And I really think once or twice he was going to tellme.'

'Oh! you think then, Mr. Lake, there _may_ be some serious--a--a--well, Ishould hope not--I do most earnestly _trust_ not.' This was said withupturned eyes and much unction. 'But do you happen, Captain Lake, to knowof any of those unfortunate, those miserable connections which younggentlemen of fashion--eh? It's very sad. Still it often needs, as yousay, professional advice to solve such difficulties--it is very sad--oh!is not it sad?'

'Pray, don't let it affect your spirits,' said Lake, who was leaning backin his chair, and looking on the carpet, about a yard before hislacquered boots, in his usual sly way. 'I may be quite mistaken, youknow, but I wished you to understand--having some little experience ofthe world, I'd be only too happy to be of any use, if you thought mydiplomacy could help poor Wylder out of his trouble--that is, if therereally is any. But _you_ don't know?'

'_No_,' said Mr. Larkin, thoughtfully; and thoughtful he continued for aminute or two, screwing his lips gently, as was his wont, whileruminating, his long head motionless, the nails of his long and somewhatlarge hand tapping on the arm of his chair, with a sharp glance now andthen at the unreadable visage of the cavalry officer. It was evident hismind was working, and nothing was heard in the room for a minute but thetapping of his nails on the chair, like a death-watch.

'No,' said Mr. Larkin again, 'I'm not suspicious--naturally too much thereverse, I fear; but it certainly does look odd. Did he tell the familyat Brandon?'

'Certainly not, that I heard. He may have mentioned it. But I startedwith him, and we walked together, under the impression that he was going,as usual, to the inn, the--what d'ye call it?--"Brandon Arms;" and it wasa sudden thought--now I think of it--for he took no luggage, though to besure I dare say he has got clothes and things in town.'

'And when does he return?'

'In a day or two, at furthest,' he said.

'I wonder what they'll think of it at Brandon?' said the attorney, with acavernous grin of sly enquiry at his companion, which, recollecting hischaracter, he softened into a sad sort of smile, and added, 'No harm, Idare say; and, after all, you know, why should there--any man may havebusiness; and, indeed, it is very likely, after all, that he really wentabout the jewels. Men are too hasty to judge one another, my dear Sir;charity, let us remember, thinketh no evil.'

'By-the-bye,' said Lake, rather briskly for him, rummaging his pockets,'I'm glad I remembered he gave me a little note to Chelford. Are any ofyour people going to Brandon this morning?'

'I'll send it,' said the lawyer, eyeing the little pencilled notewistfully, which Lake presented between two fingers.

'Yes, it is to Lord Chelford,' said the attorney, with a grand sort ofsuavity--he liked lords--placing it, after a scrutiny, in his waistcoatpocket.

'Don't you think it had best go at once?--there may be somethingrequiring an answer, and your post leaves, doesn't it, at twelve?'

'Oh! an answer, is there?' said Mr. Larkin, drawing it from his pocket,and looking at it again with a perceptible curiosity.

'I really can't say, not having read it, but there _may_,' said CaptainLake, who was now and then a little impertinent, just to keep Mr. Larkinin his place, and perhaps to hint that he understood him.

'_Read_ it! Oh, my _dear_ Sir, my _dear_ Captain Lake, how _could_you--but, oh! no--you _could_ not suppose I meant such an idea--oh,dear--no, no. You and I have our notions about what's gentlemanlike andprofessional--a--and gentlemanlike, as I say--Heaven forbid.'

'Quite so!' said Captain Lake, gently.

'Though all the world does not think with us, _I_ can tell you, thingscome before us in _our_ profession. Oh, ho! ho!' and Mr. Larkin lifted uphis pink eyes and long hands, and shook his long head, with a melancholysmile and a sigh like a shudder.

When at the later breakfast, up at Brandon, that irregular pencilledscroll reached Lord Chelford's hand, he said, as he glanced on thedirection--

'This is Mark Wylder's; what does he say?'

'So Mark's gone to town,' he said; 'but he'll be back again on Saturday,and in the meantime desires me to lay his heart at your feet, Dorcas.Will you read the note?'

'No,' said Dorcas, quietly.

Lady Chelford extended her long, shrivelled fingers, on which glimmeredsundry jewels, and made a little nod to her son, who gave it to her, witha smile. Holding her glasses to her eyes, the note at a distance, and herhead rather back, she said--

'It is not a pretty billet,' and she read in a slow and grim way:--

'DEAR CHELFORD,--I'm called up to London just for a day. No lark, buthonest business. I'll return on Saturday; and tell Dorcas, with dozens ofloves, I would write to her, but have not a minute for the train.

'Yours, &c.

'M. WYLDER.'

'No; it is not pretty,' repeated the old lady; and, indeed, in no sensewas it. Before luncheon Captain Lake arrived.

'So Wylder has run up to town,' I said, so soon as we had shaken hands inthe hall.

'Yes; _I_ drove him to Dollington last night; we just caught the uptrain.'

'He says he'll be back again on Saturday,' I said.

'Saturday, is it? He seemed to think--yes--it _would_ be only a day orso. Some jewels, I think, for Dorcas. He did not say distinctly; I onlyconjecture. Lady Chelford and Miss Brandon, I suppose, in thedrawing-room?'

So to the drawing-room he passed.

'How is Rachel? how is your sister, Captain Lake, have you seen herto-day?' asked old Lady Chelford, rather benignantly. She chose to begracious to the Lakes. 'Only, for a moment, thank you. She has one of hermiserable headaches, poor thing; but she'll be better, she says, in theafternoon, and hopes to come up here to see you, and Miss Brandon, thisevening.'

Lord Chelford and I had a pleasant walk that day to the ruins ofWillerton Castle. I find in my diary a note--'Chelford tells me it iswritten in old surveys, Wylderton, and was one of the houses of theWylders. What considerable people those Wylders were, and what an antiquestock.'

After this he wished to make a visit to the vicar, and so we partedcompany. I got into Brandon Park by the pretty gate near Latham.

It was a walk of nearly three miles across the park from this point tothe Hall, and the slopes and hollows of this noble, undulating plain,came out grandly in the long shadows and slanting beams of evening. Thatyellow, level light has, in my mind, something undefinably glorious andmelancholy, such as to make almost any scenery interesting, and mysolitary walk was delightful.

People must love and sympathise very thoroughly, I think, to enjoynatural scenery together. Generally it is one of the few spectacles bestseen alone. The silence that supervenes is indicative of the solitarycharacter of the enjoyment. It is a poem and a reverie. I was quite happystriding in the amber light and soft, long shadows, among the ferns, thecopsewood, and the grand old clumps of timber, exploring the undulations,and the wild nooks and hollows which have each their circumscribed andsylvan charm; a wonderful interest those little park-like broken dellshave always had for me; dotted with straggling birch and oak, and hereand there a hoary ash tree, with a grand and melancholy grace, dreamingamong the songs of wild birds, in their native solitudes, and the brownleaves tipped with golden light, all breathing something of old-worldromance--the poetry of bygone love and adventure--and stirringundefinable and delightful emotions that mingle unreality with sense, amusic of the eye and spirit.

After many devious wanderings, I found, under shelter of a wonderfullittle hollow, in which lay, dim and still, a tarn, reflecting the stemsof the trees that rose from its edge, in a way so clear and beautiful,that, with a smile and a sigh, I sat myself down upon a rock among theferns, and fell into a reverie.

The image of Dorcas rose before me. There is a strange mystery and powerin the apathetic, and in that unaffected carelessness, even defiance ofopinion and criticism, which I had seen here for the first time, sobeautifully embodied. I was quite sure she both thought and felt, andcould talk, too, if she chose it. What tremendous self-reliance anddisdain must form the basis of a female character, which acceptedmisapprehension and depreciation with an indifference so genuine as toscorn even the trifling exertion of disclosing its powers.

She could not possibly care for Wylder, any more than he cared for her.That odd look I detected in the mirror--what did it mean? and Wylder'sconfusion about Captain Lake--what was that? I could not comprehend thesituation that was forming. I went over Wylder's history in my mind, andCaptain Lake's--all I could recollect of it--but could find no clue, andthat horrible visitation or vision! what was _it_?

This latter image had just glided in and taken its place in my wakingdream, when I thought I saw reflected in the pool at my feet, the shapeand face which I never could forget, of the white, long-chinned old man.

For a second I was unable, I think, to lift my eyes from the water whichpresented this cadaverous image.

But the figure began to move, and I raised my eyes, and saw it retreat,with a limping gait, into the thick copse before me, in the shadow ofwhich it stopped and turned stiffly round, and directed on me a look ofhorror, and then withdrew.

It is all very fine laughing at me and my fancies. I do not think thereare many men who in my situation would have felt very differently. Irecovered myself; I shouted lustily after him to stay, and then in a sortof half-frightened rage, I pursued him; but I had to get round the pool,a considerable circuit. I could not tell which way he had turned ongetting into the thicket; and it was now dusk, the sun having gone downduring my reverie. So I stopped a little way in the copsewood, which wasgrowing quite dark, and I shouted there again, peeping under thebranches, and felt queer and much relieved that nothing answered orappeared.

Looking round me, in a sort of dream, I remembered suddenly what Wylderhad told me of old Lorne Brandon, to whose portrait this inexplicablephantom bore so powerful a resemblance. He was suspected of havingmurdered his own son, at the edge of a tarn in the park. _This_ tarnmaybe--and with the thought the water looked blacker--and a deeper andcolder shadow gathered over the ominous hollow in which I stood, and therustling in the withered leaves sounded angrily.

I got up as quickly as might be to the higher grounds, and waited therefor awhile, and watched for the emergence of the old man. But it did notappear; and shade after shade was spreading solemnly over the landscape,and having a good way to walk, I began to stride briskly along the slopesand hollows, in the twilight, now and then looking into vacancy, over myshoulder.

The little adventure, and the deepening shades, helped to sadden myhomeward walk; and when at last the dusky outline of the Hall rose beforeme, it wore a sort of weird and haunted aspect.

CHAPTER XX.

CAPTAIN LAKE TAKES AN EVENING STROLL ABOUT GYLINGDEN.

Again I had serious thoughts of removing my person and effects to theBrandon Arms. I could not quite believe I had seen a ghost; but neitherwas I quite satisfied that the thing was altogether canny. Theapparition, whatever it was, seemed to persecute me with a mysteriousobstinacy; at all events, I was falling into a habit of seeing it; and Ifelt a natural desire to escape from the house which was plagued with itspresence.

At the same time I had an odd sort of reluctance to mention the subjectto my entertainers. The thing itself was a ghostly slur upon the house,and, to run away, a reproach to my manhood; and besides, writing now at adistance, and in the spirit of history, I suspect the interest whichbeauty always excites had a great deal to do with my resolve to hold myground; and, I dare say, notwithstanding my other reasons, had the ladiesat the Hall been all either old or ugly, I would have made good myretreat to the village hotel.

As it was, however, I was resolved to maintain my position. But thatevening was streaked with a tinge of horror, and I more silent and_distrait_ than usual.

The absence of an accustomed face, even though the owner be nothing veryremarkable, is always felt; and Wylder was missed, though, sooth to say,not very much regretted. For the first time we were really a small party.Miss Lake was not there. The gallant captain, her brother, was alsoabsent. The vicar, and his good little wife, were at Naunton that eveningto hear a missionary recount his adventures and experiences in Japan, andnone of the neighbours had been called in to fill the empty chairs.

Dorcas Brandon did not contribute much to the talk; neither, in truth,did I. Old Lady Chelford occasionally dozed and nodded sternly after tea,waking up and eyeing people grimly, as though enquiring whether anyonepresumed to suspect her ladyship of having had a nap.

Chelford, I recollect, took a book, and read to us now and then, a snatchof poetry--I forget what. _My_ book--except when I was thinking of thetarn and that old man I so hated--was Miss Brandon's exquisite andmysterious face.

That young lady was leaning back in her great oak chair, in which shelooked like the heroine of some sad and gorgeous romance of the old civilwars of England, and directing a gaze of contemplative and haughtycuriosity upon the old lady, who was unconscious of the daringprofanation.

All on a sudden Dorcas Brandon said--

'And pray what do you think of marriage, Lady Chelford?'

'What do I think of marriage?' repeated the dowager, throwing back herhead and eyeing the beautiful heiress through her gold spectacles, with astony surprise, for she was not accustomed to be catechised by youngpeople. 'Marriage?--why 'tis a divine institution. What can the childmean?'

'Do you think, Lady Chelford, it may be safely contracted, solely to jointwo estates?' pursued the young lady.

'Do I think it may safely be contracted, solely to join two estates?'repeated the old lady, with a look and carriage that plainly showed howentirely she appreciated the amazing presumption of her interrogatrix.

There was a little pause.

'_Certainly_,' replied Lady Chelford; 'that is, of course, under properconditions, and with a due sense of its sacred character anda--a--obligations.'

'The first of which is _love_,' continued Miss Brandon; 'the second_honour_--both involuntary; and the third _obedience_, which springs fromthem.'

'I don't see, Miss Brandon, that my thoughts upon that subject canconcern anyone but myself,' retorted the old lady, severely, and from anawful altitude. 'And I may say, considering who I am--and my years--andthe manner in which I am usually treated, I am a little surprised at thetone in which you are pleased to question me.'

These last terrible remarks totally failed to overawe the serene temerityof the grave beauty.

'I assumed, Lady Chelford, as you had interested yourself in me so far asto originate the idea of my engagement to Mr. Wylder, that you hadconsidered these to me very important questions a little, and could giveme satisfactory answers upon points on which my mind has been employedfor some days; and, indeed, I think I've a right to ask that assistanceof you.'

'You seem to forget, young lady, that there are times and places for suchdiscussions; and that to Mr.--a--a--your visitor (a glance at me), itcan't be very interesting to listen to this kind of--of--conversation,which is neither very entertaining, nor very _wise_.'

'I am answerable only for _my_ part of it; and I think my questions verymuch to the purpose,' said the young lady, in her low, silvery tones.

'I don't question your good opinion, Miss Brandon, of your owndiscretion; but _I_ can't see any profit in now discussing an engagementof more than two months' standing, or a marriage, which is fixed to takeplace only ten days hence. And I think, Sir (glancing again at me), itmust strike _you_ a little oddly, that I should be invited, in yourpresence, to discuss family matters with Miss Dorcas Brandon?'

Now, was it fair to call a peaceable inhabitant like me into the thick ofa fray like this? I paused long enough to allow Miss Brandon to speak,but she did not choose to do so, thinking, I suppose, it was my business.

'I believe I ought to have withdrawn a little,' I said, very humbly; andold Lady Chelford at the word shot a gleam of contemptuous triumph atMiss Dorcas; but I would not acquiesce in the dowager's abusing myconcession to the prejudice of that beautiful and daring young lady--'Imean, Lady Chelford, in deference to you, who are not aware, as MissBrandon is, that I am one of Mr. Wylder's oldest and most intimatefriends; and at his request, and with Lord Chelford's approval, have beenadvised with, in detail, upon all the arrangements connected with theapproaching marriage.'

'I am not going, at present, to say any more upon these subjects, becauseLady Chelford prefers deferring our conversation,' said this very oddyoung lady; 'but there is nothing which either she or I may say, which Iwish to conceal from any friend of Mr. Wylder's.'

The idea of Miss Brandon's seriously thinking of withdrawing from herengagement with Mark Wylder, I confess never entered my mind. LadyChelford, perhaps, knew more of the capricious and daring character ofthe ladies of the Brandon line than I, and may have discovered some signsof a coming storm in the oracular questions which had fallen soharmoniously from those beautiful lips. As for me, I was puzzled. The oldviscountess was flushed (she did not rouge), and very angry, and, Ithink, uncomfortable, though she affected her usual supremacy. But theyoung lady showed no sign of excitement, and lay back in her chair in herusual deep, cold calm.

Lake's late smoking with Wylder must have disagreed with him very muchindeed, for he seemed more out of sorts as night approached. He stoleaway from Mr. Larkin's trellised porch, in the dusk. He marched into thetown rather quickly, like a man who has business on his hands; but he hadnone--for he walked by the 'Brandon Arms,' and halted, and stared at thepost-office, as if he fancied he had something to say there. Butno--there was no need to tap at the wooden window-pane. Some idle boyswere observing the dandy captain, and he turned down the short lane thatopened on the common, and sauntered upon the short grass.

Two or three groups, and an invalid visitor or two--for Gylingden boastsa 'spa'--were lounging away the twilight half-hours there. He seatedhimself on one of the rustic seats, and his yellow eyes wanderedrestlessly and vaguely along the outline of the beautiful hills. Then fornearly ten minutes he smoked--an odd recreation for a man suffering fromthe cigars of last night--and after that, for nearly as long again, heseemed lost in deep thought, his eyes upon the misty grass before him,and his small French boot beating time to the music of his thoughts.

Several groups passed close by him, in their pleasant circuit. Somewondered what might be the disease of that pale, peevish-lookinggentleman, who sat there so still, languid, and dejected. Others set himdown as a gentleman in difficulties of some sort, who was using Gylingdenfor a temporary refuge.

Others, again, supposed he might be that Major Craddock who had lostthirty thousand pounds on Vanderdecken the other day. Others knew he wasstaying with Mr. Larkin, and supposed he was trying to raise money atdisadvantage, and remarked that some of Mr. Larkin's clients lookedalways unhappy, though they had so godly an attorney to deal with.

When Lake, with a little shudder, for it was growing chill, lifted up hisyellow eyes suddenly, and recollected where he was, the common had growndark, and was quite deserted. There were lights in the windows of thereading-room, and in the billiard-room beneath it; and shadowy figures,with cues in their hands, gliding hither and thither, across itsuncurtained windows.

With a shrug, and a stealthy glance round him, Captain Lake started up.The instinct of the lonely and gloomy man unconsciously drew him towardsthe light, and he approached. A bat, attracted thither like himself, wasflitting and flickering, this way and that, across the casement.

Captain Lake, waiting, with his hand on the door-handle, for the stroke,heard the smack of the balls, and the score called by the marker, andentered the hot, glaring room. Old Major Jackson, with his glass in hiseye, was contending in his shirt-sleeves heroically with a Manchesterbag-man, who was palpably too much for him. The double-chinned and floridproprietor of the 'Brandon Arms,' with a brandy-and-water familiarity,offered Captain Lake two to one on the game in anything he liked, whichthe captain declined, and took his seat on the bench.

He was not interested by the struggle of the gallant major, who smiledlike a prize-fighter under his punishment. In fact, he could not havetold the score at any point of the game; and, to judge by his face, wastranslated from the glare of that arena into a dark and splenetic worldof his own.

When he wakened up, in the buzz and clack of tongues that followed theclose of the game, Captain Lake glared round for a moment, like a mancalled up from sleep; the noise rattled and roared in his ears, the talksounded madly, and the faces of the people excited and menaced himundefinably, and he felt as if he was on the point of starting to hisfeet and stamping and shouting. The fact is, I suppose, he wasconfoundedly nervous, dyspeptic, or whatever else it might be, and theheat and glare were too much for him.

So, out he went into the chill, fresh night-air, and round the cornerinto the quaint main-street of Gylingden, and walked down it in the dark,nearly to the last house by the corner of the Redman's Dell road, andthen back again, and so on, trying to tire himself, I think; and everytime he walked down the street, with his face toward London, his yelloweyes gleamed through the dark air, with the fixed gaze of a man lookingout for the appearance of a vehicle. It, perhaps, indicated an anxietyand a mental look-out in that direction, for he really expected no suchthing.

Then he dropped into the 'Brandon Arms,' and had a glass of brandy andwater, and a newspaper, in the coffee-room; and then he ordered a 'fly,'and drove in it to Lawyer Larkin's house--'The Lodge,' it was called--andentered Mr. Larkin's drawing-room very cheerfully.

'How quiet you are here,' said the captain. 'I have been awfullydissipated since I saw you.'

'Oh! dear no--not that I see any essential harm in the game _as_ a game,for those, I mean, who don't object to that sort of thing; but for aresident here, putting aside other feelings--a resident holding aposition--it would not do, I assure you. There are people there whom onecould not associate with comfortably. I don't care, I hope, how poor aman may be, but do let him be a gentleman. I own to that prejudice. Aman, my dear Captain Lake, whose father before him has been a gentleman(old Larkin, while in the flesh, was an organist, and kept a small dayschool at Dwiddleston, and his grandfather he did not care to enquireafter), and who has had the education of one, does not feel himself athome, you know--I'm sure you have felt the same sort of thing yourself.'

'Oh! of course; and I had such a nice walk on the common first, and thena turn up and down before the 'Brandon Arms,' where at last I read apaper, and could not resist a glass of brandy and water, and, growinglazy, came home in a 'fly,' so I think I have had a very gay evening.

Larkin smiled benignantly, and would have said something no doubt worthhearing, but at that moment the door opened, and his old cook and elderlyparlour-maid--no breath of scandal ever troubled the serene fair fame ofhis household, and everyone allowed that, in the prudential virtues, atleast, he was nearly perfect--and Sleddon the groom, walked in, withthose sad faces which, I suppose, were first learned in the belief thatthey were acceptable to their master.

'Oh!' said Mr. Larkin, in a low, reverential tone, and the smilevanished; 'prayers!'

'Well, then, if you permit me, being a little tired, I'll go to mybed-room.'

With a grave and affectionate interest, Mr. Larkin looked in his face,and sighed a little and said:--

'Might I, perhaps, venture to beg, just this one night----'

That chastened and entreating look it was hard to resist. But somehow thewhole thing seemed to Lake to say, 'Do allow me this once to prescribe;do give your poor soul this one chance,' and Lake answered himsuperciliously and irreverently.

'What a beast that fellow is. I don't know why the d-- I stay in hishouse.'

One reason was, perhaps, that it saved him nearly a guinea a day, and hemay have had some other little reasons just then.

'Family prayers indeed! and such a pair of women--witches, by Jove!--andthat rascally groom, and a hypocritical attorney! And the vulgar brutewill be as rich as Croesus, I dare say.'

Here soliloquised Stanley Lake in that gentleman's ordinary vein. Hismomentary disgust had restored him for a few seconds to his normal self.But certain anxieties of a rather ghastly kind, and speculations as towhat might be going on in London just then, were round him again, likearmed giants, in another moment, and the riches or hypocrisy of his hostwere no more to him than those of Overreach or Tartuffe.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE VISITS HIS SISTER'S SICK BED.

I suspect there are very few mere hypocrites on earth. Of course, I donot reckon those who are under compulsion to affect purity of manners anda holy integrity of heart--and there are such--but those who volunteer anextraordinary profession of holiness, being all the while consciousvillains. The Pharisees, even while devouring widows' houses, believedhonestly in their own supreme righteousness.

I am afraid our friend Jos. Larkin wore a mask. I am sure he often woreit when he was quite alone. I don't know indeed, that he ever took itoff. He was, perhaps, content to see it, even when he looked in theglass, and had not a very distinct idea what the underlying featuresmight be. It answers with the world; it almost answers with himself. Pityit won't do everywhere! 'When Moses went to speak with God,' says theadmirable Hall, 'he pulled off his veil. It was good reason he shouldpresent to God that face which he had made. There had been more need ofhis veil to hide the glorious face of God from him than to hide his fromGod. Hypocrites are contrary to Moses. He showed his worst to men, hisbest to God; they show their best to men, their worst to God; but Godsees both their veil and their face, and I know not whether He more hatestheir veil of dissimulation or their face of wickedness.'

Captain Lake wanted rest--sleep--quiet thoughts at all events. When hewas alone he was at once in a state of fever and gloom, and seemed alwayswatching for something. His strange eyes glanced now this way, now that,with a fierce restlessness--now to the window--now to the door--and youwould have said he was listening intently to some indistinct and toodistant conversation affecting him vitally, there was such a look of fearand conjecture always in his face.

He bolted his door and unlocked his dressing case, and from a littlesilver box in that glittering repository he took, one after the other,two or three little wafers of a dark hue, and placed them successively onhis tongue, and suffered them to melt, and so swallowed them. They werenot liquorice. I am afraid Captain Lake dabbled a little in opium. He wasnot a great adept--yet, at least--like those gentlemen who can swallowfive hundred drops of laudanum at a sitting. But he knew the virtues ofthe drug, and cultivated its acquaintance, and was oftener under itsinfluence than perhaps any mortal, except himself, suspected.

The greater part of mankind are, upon the whole, happier and morecheerful than they are always willing to allow. Nature subserves themajority. She smiled very brightly next morning. There was a twitteringof small birds among the brown leaves and ivy, and a thousand otherpleasant sounds and sights stirring in the sharp, sunny air. This sort ofinflexible merry-making in nature seems marvellously selfish in the eyesof anxious Captain Lake. Fear hath torment--and fear is the worstingredient in mental pain. This is the reason why suspense is sointolerable, and the retrospect even of the worst less terrible.

Stanley Lake would have given more than he could well afford that it werethat day week, and he no worse off. Why did time limp so tediously awaywith him, prolonging his anguish gratuitously? He felt truculently, andwould have murdered that week, if he could, in the midst of its loiteringsunshine and gaiety.

There was a strange pain at his heart, and the pain of intense andfruitless calculation in his brain; and, as the Mahometan prays towardsMecca, and the Jew towards Jerusalem, so Captain Lake's morning orisons,whatsoever they were, were offered at the window of his bed-room towardLondon, from whence he looked for his salvation, or it might be the otherthing--with a dreadful yearning.

He hated the fresh glitter of that morning scene. Why should the world becheerful? It was a repast spread of which he could not partake, and itspited him. Yes; it was selfish--and hating selfishness--he would havestruck the sun out of the sky that morning with his walking-cane, if hecould, and draped the world in black.

He saw from his window the good vicar walk smiling by, in white chokerand seedy black, his little boy holding by his fingers, and capering andwheeling in front, and smiling up in his face. They were very busytalking.

Little 'Fairy' used to walk, when parochial visits were not very distant,with his 'Wapsie;' how that name came about no one remembered, but thevicar answered to it more cheerily than to any other. The little man wassolitary, and these rambles were a delight. A beautiful smiling littlefellow, very exacting of attention--troublesome, perhaps; he was sosociable, and needed sympathy and companionship, and repaid it with aboundless, sensitive _love_. The vicar told him the stories of David andGoliath, and Joseph and his brethren, and of the wondrous birth inBethlehem of Judea, the star that led the Wise Men, and the celestialsong heard by the shepherds keeping their flocks by night, and snatchesof 'Pilgrim's Progress'; and sometimes, when they made a feast and eattheir pennyworth of cherries, sitting on the style, he treated him, I amafraid, to the profane histories of Jack the Giant-killer and the YellowDwarf; the vicar had theories about imagination, and fancied it was animportant faculty, and that the Creator had not given children theirunextinguishable love of stories to no purpose.

I don't envy the man who is superior to the society of children. What canhe gain from children's talk? Is it witty, or wise, or learned? Be frank.Is it not, honestly, a mere noise and interruption--a musical cackling ofgeese, and silvery braying of tiny asses? Well, say I, out of my largeacquaintance, there are not many men to whom I would go for wisdom;learning is better found in books, and, as for wit, is it alwayspleasant? The most companionable men are not always the greatestintellects. They laugh, and though they don't converse, they make acheerful noise, and show a cheerful countenance.

There was not a great deal in Will Honeycomb, for instance; but our dearMr. Spectator tells us somewhere that 'he laughed easily,' which I thinkquite accounts for his acceptance with the club. He was kindly andenjoying. What is it that makes your dog so charming a companion in yourwalks? Simply that he thoroughly likes you and enjoys himself. He appealsimperceptibly to your affections, which cannot be stirred--such is God'swill--ever so lightly, without some little thrillings of happiness; andthrough the subtle absorbents of your sympathy he infuses into yousomething of his own hilarious and exulting spirit.

When Stanley Lake saw the vicar, the lines of his pale face contractedstrangely, and his wild gaze followed him, and I don't think he breathedonce until the thin smiling man in black, with the little gambollingbright boy holding by his hand, had passed by. He was thinking, you maybe sure, of his Brother Mark.

When Lake had ended his toilet and stared in the glass, he still lookedso haggard, that on greeting Mr. Larkin in the parlour, he thought itnecessary to mention that he had taken cold in that confoundedbilliard-room last night, which spoiled his sleep, and made him awfullyseedy that morning. Of course, his host was properly afflicted andsympathetic.

'By-the-bye, I had a letter this morning from that party--our commonfriend, Mr. W., you know,' said Larkin, gracefully.

'Well, what is he doing, and when does he come back? You mean Wylder, ofcourse?'

'Yes; my good client, Mr. Mark Wylder. Permit me to assist you to somehoney, you'll find it remarkably good, I venture to say; it comes fromthe gardens of Queen's Audley. The late marquis, you know, prided himselfon his honey--and my friend, Thornbury, cousin to Sir FrederickThornbury--I suppose you know him--an East Indian judge, you know--verykindly left it at Dollington for me, on his way to the Earl of Epsom's.'

'Thank you--delicious, I'm sure, it has been in such good company. May Isee Wylder's note--that is, if there's no private business?'

'Oh, certainly.'

And, with Wylder's great red seal on the back of the envelope, the letterran thus:--

'DEAR LARKIN,--I write in haste to save post, to say I shall be detainedin town a few days longer than I thought. Don't wait for me about theparchments; I am satisfied. If anything crosses your mind, a word withMr. De C. at the Hall, will clear all up. Have all ready to sign and sealwhen I come back--certainly, within a week.

'Yours sincerely,

'M. WYLDER,

'London.'

It was evidently written in great haste, with the broad-nibbed pen heliked; but notwithstanding the sort of swagger with which the writingmarched across the page, Lake might have seen here and there a littlequaver--indicative of something different from haste--the vibrations ofanother sort of flurry.

'"Certainly within a week," he writes. Does he mean he'll be here in aweek or only to have the papers ready in a week?' asked Lake.

'The question, certainly, does arise. It struck me on the first perusal,'answered the attorney. 'His address is rather a wide one, too--London! Doyou know his club, Captain Lake?'

'The _Wanderers_. He has left the _United Service_. Nothing for me,by-the-way?'

'Would you like a messenger? I'll send down with pleasure to enquire.'

'Thank you, no; I'll walk down and see her.'

And Lake yawned at the window, and then took his hat and stick andsauntered toward Gylingden. At the post-office window he tapped with thesilver tip of his cane, and told Miss Driver with a sleepy smile--

'I'm going down to Redman's Farm, and any letters for my sister, MissLake, I may as well take with me.'

Everybody 'in business' in the town of Gylingden, by this time, knewCaptain Lake and his belongings--a most respectable party--a high man;and, of course, there was no difficulty. There was only one letter--theaddress was written--'Miss Lake, Redman's Farm, near Brandon Park,Gylingden,' in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards.

Captain Lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her face gently, andsmiled, and thanked her in his graceful way--and, in fact, left anenduring impression upon that impressible nature.

Turning up the dark road at Redman's Dell, the gallant captain passed theold mill, and, all being quiet up and down the road, he halted under thelordly shadow of a clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter hehad just taken charge of. It contained only these words:--

'Wednesday.

'On Friday night, next, at half-past twelve.'

This he read twice or thrice, pausing between whiles. The envelope borethe London postmark. Then he took out his cigar case, selected apromising weed, and wrapping the laconic note prettily round one of hisscented matches, lighted it, and the note flamed pale in the daylight,and dropped still blazing, at the root of the old tree he stood by, andsent up a little curl of blue smoke--an incense to the demon of thewood--and turned in a minute more into a black film, overrun by a hundredcreeping sparkles; and having completed his mysterious incremation, he,with his yellow eyes, made a stolen glance around, and lighting hiscigar, glided gracefully up the steep road, under the solemn canopy ofold timber, to the sound of the moaning stream below, and the rustle ofwithered leaves about him, toward Redman's Farm.

As he entered the flower-garden, the jaundiced face of old Tamar, withits thousand small wrinkles and its ominous gleam of suspicion, waslooking out from the darkened porch. The white cap, kerchief, anddrapery, courtesied to him as he drew near, and the dismal face changednot.

'Well, Tamar, how do you do?--how are all? Where is that girl Margery?'

'Well, come up stairs to your mistress's room,' said Lake, mounting thestairs, with his hat in his hand, and on tip-toe, like a man approachinga sick chamber.

There was something I think grim and spectral in this ceremonious ascentto the empty chamber. Children had once occupied that silent floor forthere was a little balustraded gate across the top of the staircase.

'I keep this closed,' said old Tamar, 'and forbid her to cross it, lestshe should disturb the mistress. Heaven forgive me!'

'Very good,' he whispered, and he peeped over the banister, and thenentered Rachel's silent room, darkened with closed shutters, the whitecurtains and white coverlet so like 'the dark chamber of white death.'

He had intended speaking to Tamar there, but changed his mind, or rathercould not make up his mind; and he loitered silently, and stood with thecurtain in his gloved hand, looking upon the cold coverlet, as if Rachellay dead there.

And in the same stealthy way, walking lightly and slowly, down the stairsthey went, and Stanley entered the kitchen.

'How do you do, Margery? You'll be glad to hear your mistress is better.You must run down to the town, though, and buy some jelly, and you are tobring her back change of this.'

And he placed half-a-crown in her hand.

'Put on your bonnet and my old shawl, child; and take the basket, andcome back by the side door,' croaked old Tamar.

So the girl dried her hands--she was washing the teacups--and in atwinkling was equipped and on her way to Gylingden.

CHAPTER XXII.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE MEETS A FRIEND NEAR THE WHITE HOUSE.

Lake had no very high opinion of men or women, gentle or simple.

'She listens, I dare say, the little spy,' said he.

'No, Master Stanley! She's a good little girl.'

'She quite believes her mistress is up stairs, eh?'

'Yes; the Lord forgive me--I'm deceiving her.'

He did not like the tone and look which accompanied this.

'Now, my good old Tamar, you really can't be such an idiot as to fancythere can be any imaginable wrong in keeping that prying little slut inignorance of that which in no wise concerns her. This is a criticalmatter, do you see, and if it were known in this place that your youngmistress had gone away as she has done--though quite innocently--upon myhonour--I think it would blast her. You would not like, for a stupidcrotchet, to ruin poor Radie, I fancy.'

'I'm doing just what you both bid me,' said the old woman.

'You sit up stairs chiefly?'

She nodded sadly.

'And keep the hall door shut and bolted?'

Again she nodded.

'I'm going up to the Hall, and I'll tell them she's much better, and thatI've been in her room, and that, perhaps, she may go up to see them inthe morning.'

Old Tamar shook her head and groaned.

'How long is all this to go on for, Master Stanley?'

'Why, d-- you, Tamar, can't you listen?' he said, clutching her wrist inhis lavender kid grasp rather roughly. 'How long--a very short time, Itell you. She'll be home immediately. I'll come to-morrow and tell youexactly--maybe to-morrow evening--will that do? And should they call, youmust say the same; and if Miss Dorcas, Miss Brandon, you know--shouldwish to go up to see her, tell her she's asleep. Stop that hypocriticalgrimacing, will you. It is no part of your duty to tell the world whatcan't possibly concern them, and may bring your young mistressto--_perdition_. That does not strike me as any part of your religion.'

Tamar groaned again, and she said: 'I opened my Bible, Lord help me,three times to-day, Master Stanley, and could not go on. It's no use--Ican't read it.'

'Time enough--I think you've read more than is good for you. I think youare half mad, Tamar; but think what you may, it must be done. Have notyou read of straining at gnats and swallowing camels? You used not, I'veheard, to be always so scrupulous, old Tamar.'

There was a vile sarcasm in his tone and look.

'It is not for the child I nursed to say that,' said Tamar.

There were scandalous stories of wicked old Tiberius--bankrupt, dead, andburied--compromising the fame of Tamar--not always a spectacled andcadaverous student of Holy Writ. These, indeed, were even in Stanley'schildhood old-world, hazy, traditions of the servants' hall. But boyshear often more than is good, and more than gospel, who live in suchhouses as old General Lake, the old millionaire widower, kept.

'I did not mean anything, upon my honour, Tamar, that could annoy you. Ionly meant you used not to be a fool, and pray don't begin now; for Iassure you Radie and I would not ask it if it could be avoided. You haveMiss Radie's secret in your hands, I don't think you'd like to injureher, and you used to be trustworthy. I don't think your Bible teaches youanywhere to hurt your neighbour and to break faith.'

'Don't speak of the Bible now; but you needn't fear me, Master Stanley,'answered the old woman, a little sternly. 'I don't know why she's gone,nor why it's a secret--I don't, and I'd rather not. Poor Miss Radie, shenever heard anything but what was good from old Tamar, whatever I mightha' bin myself, miserable sinners are we all; and I'll do as you bid me,and I _have_ done, Master Stanley, howsoever it troubles my mind;' andnow old Tamar's words spoke--that's all.

'Old Tamar is a sensible creature, as she always was. I hope I did notvex you, Tamar. I did not mean, I assure you; but we get rough ways inthe army, I'm afraid, and you won't mind me. You never _did_ mind littleStannie when he was naughty, you know.'

There was here a little subsidence in his speech. He was thinking ofgiving her a crown, but there were several reasons against it, so thathandsome coin remained in his purse.

'And I forgot to tell you, Tamar, I've a ring for you in town--a littlesouvenir; you'll think it pretty--a gold ring, with a stone in it--itbelonged to poor dear Aunt Jemima, you remember. I left it behind; sostupid!'

So he shook hands with old Tamar, and patted her affectionately on theshoulder, and he said:--

'Keep the hall-door bolted. Make any excuse you like: only it would notdo for anyone to open it, and run up to the room as they might, so don'tforget to secure the door when I go. I think that is all. Ta-ta, dearTamar. I'll see you in the morning.'

As he walked down the mill-road toward the town, he met Lord Chelford onhis way to make enquiry about Rachel at Redman's Farm; and Lake, who, aswe know, had just seen his sister, gave him all particulars.

Chelford, like the lawyer, had heard from Mark Wylder that morning--a fewlines, postponing his return. He merely mentioned it, and made nocomment; but Lake perceived that he was annoyed at his unexplainedabsence.

Lake dined at Brandon that evening, and though looking ill, was very goodcompany, and promised to bring an early report of Rachel's convalescencein the morning.

I have little to record of next day, except that Larkin received anotherLondon letter. Wylder plainly wrote in great haste, and merely said:--

'I shall have to wait a day or two longer than I yesterday thought, tomeet a fellow from whom I am to receive something of importance, rather,as I think, to me. Get the deeds ready, as I said in my last. If I am notin Gylingden by Monday, we must put off the wedding for a weeklater--there is no help for it. You need not talk of this. I write toChelford to say the same.'

This note was as unceremonious, and still shorter. Lord Chelford wouldhave written at once to remonstrate with Mark on the unseemliness ofputting off his marriage so capriciously, or, at all events, somysteriously--Miss Brandon not being considered, nor her friendsconsulted. But Mark had a decided objection to many letters: he had nofancy to be worried, when he had made up his mind, by prosyremonstrances; and he shut out the whole tribe of letter-writers bysimply omitting to give them his address.

His cool impertinence, and especially this cunning precaution, incensedold Lady Chelford. She would have liked to write him one of those terse,courteous, biting notes, for which she was famous; and her fingers,morally, tingled to box his ears. But what was to be done with mere'London?' Wylder was hidden from mortal sight, like a heaven-protectedhero in the 'Iliad,' and a cloud of invisibility girdled him.

Like most rustic communities, Gylingden and its neighbourhood were earlyin bed. Few lights burned after half-past ten, and the whole vicinity wasdeep in its slumbers before twelve o'clock.

At that dread hour, Captain Lake, about a mile on the Dollington, whichwas the old London road from Gylingden, was pacing backward and forwardunder the towering files of beech that overarch it at that point.

The 'White House' public, with a wide panel over its door, presenting, intints subdued by time, a stage-coach and four horses in mid career, lay afew hundred yards nearer to Gylingden. Not a soul was stirring--not asound but those, sad and soothing, of nature was to be heard.

Stanley Lake did not like waiting any more than did Louis XIV. He wasreally a little tired of acting sentry, and was very peevish by the timethe ring of wheels and horse-hoofs approaching from the London directionbecame audible. Even so, he had a longer wait than he expected,sounds are heard so far by night. At last, however, it drewnearer--nearer--quite close--and a sort of nondescript vehicle--onehorsed--loomed in the dark, and he calls--

'Hallo! there--I say--a passenger for the "White House?"'

At the same moment, a window of the cab--shall we call it--was let down,and a female voice--Rachel Lake's--called to the driver to stop.

Lake addressed the driver--

'You come from Johnson's Hotel--don't you--at Dollington?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Well, I'll pay you half-fare to bring me there.'

'All right, Sir. But the 'oss, Sir, must 'av 'is oats fust.'

'Feed him here, then. They are all asleep in the "White House." I'll bewith you in five minutes, and you shall have something for yourself whenwe get into Dollington.'

Stanley opened the door. She placed her hand on his, and stepped to theground. It was very dark under those great trees. He held her hand alittle harder than was his wont.

'All quite well, ever since. You are not very tired, are you? I'm afraidit will be necessary for you to walk to "Redman's Farm," dear Radie--butit is hardly a mile, I think--for, you see, the fellow must not know whoyou are; and I must go back with him, for I have not been verywell--indeed I've been, I may say, very ill--and I told that fellow,Larkin, who has his eyes about him, and would wonder what kept me out solate, that I would run down to some of the places near for a change, andsleep a night there; and that's the reason, dear Radie, I can walk only ashort way with you; but you are not afraid to walk a part of the way homewithout me? You are so sensible, and you have been, really, so very kind,I assure you I appreciate it, Radie--I do, indeed; and I'm verygrateful--I am, upon my word.'

Rachel answered with a heavy sigh.

CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW RACHEL SLEPT THAT NIGHT IN REDMAN'S FARM.

'Allow me--pray do,' and he took her little bag from her hand. 'I hopeyou are not very tired, darling; you've been so very good; and you're notafraid--you know the place is so quiet--of the little walk by yourself.Take my arm; I'll go as far as I can, but it is very late you know--andyou are sure you are not afraid?'

'I ought to be afraid of nothing now, Stanley, but I think I am afraid ofeverything.'

'Merely a little nervous--it's nothing--I've been wretchedly since,myself; but, I'm so glad you are home again; you shall have no moretrouble, I assure you; and not a creature suspects you have been fromhome. Old Tamar has behaved admirably.'

Rachel sighed again and said--

'Yes--poor Tamar.'

'And now, dear, I'm afraid I must leave you--I'm very sorry; but you seehow it is; keep to the shady side, close by the hedge, where the treesstop; but I'm certain you will meet no one. Tamar will tell you who hascalled--hardly anyone--I saw them myself every day at Brandon, and toldthem you were ill. You've been very kind, Radie; I assure you I'll neverforget it. You'll find Tamar up and watching for you--I arranged allthat; and I need not say you'll be very careful not to let that girl ofyours hear anything. You'll be very quiet--she suspects nothing; and Iassure you, so far as personal annoyance of any kind is concerned, youmay be perfectly at ease. Good-night, Radie; God bless you, dear. I wishvery much I could see you all the way, but there's a risk in it, youknow. Good-night, dear Radie. By-the-bye, here's your bag; I'll take therug, it's too heavy for you, and I may as well have it to Dollington.'

He kissed her cheek in his slight way, and left her, and was soon on hisway to Dollington, where he slept that night--rather more comfortablythan he had done since Rachel's departure.

Rachel walked on swiftly. Very tired, but not at all sleepy--on thecontrary, excited and nervous, and rather relieved, notwithstanding thatStanley had left her to walk home alone.

It seemed to her that more than a month had passed since she saw themill-road last. How much had happened! how awful was the change! Familiarobjects glided past her, the same, yet the fashion of the countenance wasaltered; there was something estranged and threatening.

The pretty parsonage was now close by: in the dews of night the spirit ofpeace and slumbers smiled over it; but the sight of its steep roof andhomely chimney-stacks smote with a shock at her brain and heart--atroubled moan escaped her. She looked up with the instinct of prayer, andclasped her hands on the handle of that little bag which had made themysterious journey with her; a load which no man could lift lay upon herheart.

Then she commenced her dark walk up the mill-road--her hands stillclasped, her lips moving in broken appeals to Heaven. She looked neitherto the right nor to the left, but passed on with inflexible gaze andhasty steps, like one who crosses a plank over some awful chasm.

In such darkness Redman's dell was a solemn, not to say an awful, spot;and at any time, I think, Rachel, in a like solitude and darkness, wouldhave been glad to see the red glimmer of old Tamar's candle proclaimingunder the branches the neighbourhood of human life and sympathy.

The old woman, with her shawl over her head, sat listening for her youngmistress's approach, on the little side bench in the trellised porch, andtottered hastily forth to meet her at the garden wicket, whisperingforlorn welcomes, and thanksgivings, which Rachel answered only with akiss.

Safe, safe at home! Thank Heaven at least for that. Secluded oncemore--hidden in Redman's Dell; but never again to be the same--thecareless mind no more. The summer sunshine through the trees, the leafysongs of birds, obscured in the smoke and drowned in the discord of anuntold and everlasting trouble.

The hall-door was now shut and bolted. Wise old Tamar had turned the keyupon the sleeping girl. There was nothing to be feared from prying eyesand listening ears.

'You are cold, Miss Radie, and tired--poor thing! I lit a bit of fire inyour room, Miss; would you like me to go up stairs with you, Miss?'

'Come.'

And so up stairs they went; and the young lady looked round with astrange anxiety, like a person seeking for something, and forgettingwhat; and, sitting down, she leaned her head on her hand with a moan, theliving picture of despair.

'You've a headache, Miss Radie?' said the old woman, standing by her withthat painful enquiry which sat naturally on her face.

'A heartache, Tamar.'

'Let me help you off with these things, Miss Radie, dear.'

The young lady did not seem to hear, but she allowed Tamar to remove hercloak and hat and handkerchief.

The old servant had placed the tea-things on the table, and what remainedof that wine of which Stanley had partaken on the night from which theeclipse of Rachel's life dated. So, without troubling her with questions,she made tea, and then some negus, with careful and trembling hands.

'No,' said Rachel, a little pettishly, and put it aside.

'See now, Miss Radie, dear. You look awful sick and tired. You are tiredto death and pale, and sorry, my dear child; and to please old Tamar,you'll just drink this.'

'Thank you, Tamar, I believe you are right.'

The truth was she needed it; and in the same dejected way she sipped itslowly; and then there was a long silence--the silence of a fatigue, likethat of fever, near which sleep refuses to come. But she sat in thatwaking lethargy in which are sluggish dreams of horror, and neither eyesnor ears for that which is before us.

When at last with another great sigh she lifted her head, her eyes restedon old Tamar's face, at the other side of the fire-place, with a dark,dull surprise and puzzle for a moment, as if she could not tell why shewas there, or where the place was; and then rising up, with piteous lookin her old nurse's face, she said, 'Oh! Tamar, Tamar. It is a dreadfulworld.'

'So it is, Miss Radie,' answered the old woman, her glittering eyesreturning her sad gaze wofully. 'Aye, so it is, sure!--and such it wasand will be. For so the Scripture says--"Cursed is the ground for thysake"--hard to the body--a vale of tears--dark to the spirit. But it isthe hand of God that is upon you, and, like me, you will say at last, "Itis good for me that I have been in trouble." Lie down, dear Miss Radie,and I'll read to you the blessed words of comfort that have been sealedfor me ever since I saw you last. They have--but that's over.'

And she turned up her pallid, puckered face, and, with a trembling andknotted pair of hands uplifted, she muttered an awful thanksgiving.

Rachel said nothing, but her eyes rested on the floor, and, with thequiet obedience of her early childhood, she did as Tamar said. And theold woman assisted her to undress, and so she lay down with a sigh in herbed. And Tamar, her round spectacles by this time on her nose, sitting atthe little table by her pillow, read, in a solemn and somewhat quaveringvoice, such comfortable passages as came first to memory.

Rachel cried quietly as she listened, and at last, worn out by manyfeverish nights, and the fatigues of her journey, she fell into adisturbed slumber, with many startings and sudden wakings, with cries andstrange excitement.

Old Tamar would not leave her, but kept her seat in the high-backedarm-chair throughout the night, like a nurse--as indeed she was--in asick chamber. And so that weary night limped tediously away, and morningdawned, and tipped the discoloured foliage of the glen with its glow,awaking the songs of all the birds, and dispersing the white mists ofdarkness. And Rachel with a start awoke, and sat up with a wild look anda cry--

'What is it?'

'Nothing, dear Miss Radie--only poor old Tamar.' And a new day had begun.

CHAPTER XXIV.

DORCAS BRANDON PAYS RACHEL A VISIT.

It was not very much past eleven that morning when the pony carriage fromBrandon drew up before the little garden wicket of Redman's Farm.

The servant held the ponies' heads, and Miss Dorcas passed through thelittle garden, and met old Tamar in the porch.

'Better to-day, Tamar?' enquired this grand and beautiful young lady.

The sun glimmered through the boughs behind her; her face was in shade,and its delicate chiselling was brought out in soft reflected lights; andold Tamar looked on her in a sort of wonder, her beauty seemed socelestial and splendid.

Well, she _was_ better, though she had had a bad night. She was up anddressed, and this moment coming down, and would be very happy to see MissBrandon, if she would step into the drawing-room.

Miss Brandon took old Tamar's hand gently and pressed it. I suppose shewas glad and took this way of showing it; and tall, beautiful, graceful,in rustling silks, she glided into the tiny drawing-room silently, andsate down softly by the window, looking out upon the flowers and thefalling leaves, mottled in light and shadow.

We have been accustomed to see another girl--bright and fair-hairedRachel Lake--in the small rooms of Redman's Farm; but Dorcas only in richand stately Brandon Hall--the beautiful 'genius loci' under loftyceilings, curiously moulded in the first James's style--amid carved oakand richest draperies, tall china vases, paintings, and cold whitestatues; and somehow in this low-roofed room, so small and homely, shelooks like a displaced divinity--an exile under Juno's jealousy from thecloudy splendours of Olympus--dazzlingly melancholy, and 'humano major'among the meannesses and trumperies of earth.

So there came a step and a little rustling of feminine draperies, thesmall door opened, and Rachel entered, with her hand extended, and a palesmile of welcome.

Women can hide their pain better than we men, and bear it better, too,except when _shame_ drops fire into the dreadful chalice. But poor RachelLake had more than that stoical hypocrisy which enables the torturedspirits of her sex to lift a pale face through the flames and smile.

She was sanguine, she was genial and companionable, and her spirits roseat the sight of a friendly face. This transient spring and lighting upare beautiful--a glamour beguiling our senses. It wakens up the frozenspirit of enjoyment, and leads the sad faculties forth on a wildforgetful frolic.

'Rachel, dear, I'm so glad to see you,' said Dorcas, placing her armsgently about her neck, and kissing her twice or thrice. There wassomething of sweetness and fondness in her tones and manner, which wasnew to Rachel, and comforting, and she returned the greeting as kindly,and felt more like her former self. 'You have been more ill than Ithought, darling, and you are still far from quite recovered.'

Rachel's pale and sharpened features and dilated eye struck her with apainful surprise.

'I shall soon be as well as I am ever likely to be--that is, quite well,'answered Rachel. 'You have been very kind. I've heard of your cominghere, and sending, so often.'

They sat down side by side, and Dorcas held her hand.

'Maybe, Rachel dear, you would like to drive a little?'

'No, darling, not yet; it is very good of you.'

'You have been so ill, my poor Rachel.'

'Ill and troubled, dear--troubled in mind, and miserably nervous.'

Poor Rachel! her nature recoiled from deceit, and she told, at allevents, as much of the truth as she dared.

Dorcas's large eyes rested upon her with a grave enquiry, and then MissBrandon looked down in silence for a while on the carpet, and wasthinking a little sternly, maybe, and with a look of pain, still holdingRachel's hand, she said, with a sad sort of reproach in her tone,

'Rachel, dear, you have not told my secret?'

'No, indeed, Dorcas--never, and never will; and I think, though I havelearned to fear death, I would rather die than let Stanley even suspectit.'

She spoke with a sudden energy, which partook of fear and passion, andflushed her thin cheek, and made her languid eyes flash.

'Thank you, Rachel, my Cousin Rachel, my only friend. I ought not to havedoubted you,' and she kissed her again. 'Chelford had a note from Mr.Wylder this morning--another note--his coming delayed, and something ofhis having to see some person who is abroad,' continued Dorcas, after alittle pause. 'You have heard, of course, of Mr. Wylder's absence?'

'Yes, something--_everything_,' said Rachel, hurriedly, lookingfrowningly at a flower which she was twirling in her fingers.

'He chose an unlucky moment for his departure. I meant to speak to himand end all between us; and I would now write, but there is no address tohis letters. I think Lady Chelford and her son begin to think there ismore in this oddly-timed journey of Mr. Wylder's than first appeared.When I came into the parlour this morning I knew they were speaking ofit. If he does not return in a day or two, Chelford, I am sure, willspeak to me, and then I shall tell him my resolution.'

'Yes,' said Rachel.

'I don't understand his absence. I think _they_ are puzzled, too. Can youconjecture why he is gone?'

Rachel made no answer, but rose with a dreamy look, as if gazing at somedistant object among the dark masses of forest trees, and stood beforethe window so looking across the tiny garden.

'I don't think, Rachel dear, you heard me?' said Dorcas.

'Can I conjecture why he is gone?' murmured Rachel, still gazing with awild kind of apathy into distance. 'Can I? What can it now be to you orme--why? Yes, we sometimes conjecture right, and sometimes wrong; thereare many things best not conjectured about at all--some interesting, someabominable, some that pass all comprehension: I never mean to conjecture,if I can help it, again.'

And the wan oracle having spoken, she sate down in the same sort ofabstraction again beside Dorcas, and she looked full in her cousin'seyes.

'I made you a voluntary promise, Dorcas, and now you will make me one. OfMark Wylder I say this: his name has been for years hateful to me, andrecently it has become frightful; and you will promise me simply this,that you will never ask me to speak again about him. Be he near, or be hefar, I regard his very name with horror.'

Dorcas returned her gaze with one of haughty amazement; and Rachel said,

'Well, Dorcas, you promise?'

'You speak truly, Rachel, you _have_ a right to my promise: I give it.'

'Dorcas, you are changed; have I lost your love for asking so poor akindness?'

'I'm only disappointed, Rachel; I thought you would have trusted me, as Idid you.'

'It is an antipathy--an antipathy I cannot get over, dear Dorcas; you maythink it a madness, but don't blame me. Remember I am neither well norhappy, and forgive what you cannot like in me. I have very few to love menow, and I thought you might love me, as I have begun to love you. Oh!Dorcas, darling, don't forsake me; I am very lonely here and my spiritsare gone and I never needed kindness so much before.'

And she threw her arms round her cousin's neck, and brave Rachel at lastburst into tears.

Dorcas, in her strange way, was moved.

'I like you still, Rachel; I'm sure I'll always like you. You resembleme, Rachel: you are fearless and inflexible and generous. That spiritbelongs to the blood of our strange race; all our women were so. Yes,Rachel, I do love you. I was wounded to find you had thoughts you wouldnot trust to me; but I have made the promise, and I'll keep it; and Ilove you all the same.'

'Thank you, Dorcas, dear. I like to call you cousin--kindred is sopleasant. Thank you, from my heart, for your love; you will never know,perhaps, how much it is to me.'

The young queen looked on her kindly, but sadly, through her large,strange eyes, clouded with a presage of futurity, and she kissed heragain, and said--

'Rachel, dear, I have a plan for you and me: we shall be old maids, youand I, and live together like the ladies of Llangollen, careless andhappy recluses. I'll let Brandon and abdicate. We will make a little tourtogether, when all this shall have blown over, in a few weeks, and chooseour retreat; and with the winter's snow we'll vanish from Brandon, andappear with the early flowers at our cottage among the beautiful woodsand hills of Wales. Will you come, Rachel?'

At sight of this castle or cottage in the air, Rachel lighted up. Thelittle whim had something tranquillising and balmy. It was escape--flightfrom Gylingden--flight from Brandon--flight from Redman's Farm: they andall their hated associations would be far behind, and that awful page inher story, not torn out, indeed, but gummed down as it were, and nolonger glaring and glowering in her eyes every moment of her waking life.

So she smiled upon the picture painted on the clouds; it was the firstthing that had interested her for days. It was a hope. She seized it; sheclung to it. She knew, perhaps, it was the merest chimera; but it restedand consoled her imagination, and opened, in the blackness of her sky,one small vista, through whose silvery edge the blue and stars of heavenwere visible.

CHAPTER XXV.

CAPTAIN LAKE LOOKS IN AT NIGHTFALL.

In the queer little drawing-room of Redman's Farm it was twilight, sodense were the shadows from the great old chestnuts that surrounded it,before the sun was well beneath the horizon; and you could, from itsdarkened window, see its red beams still tinting the high grounds ofWillerston, visible through the stems of the old trees that were massedin the near foreground.

A figure which had lost its energy--a face stamped with the lines andpallor of a dejection almost guilty--with something of the fallen graceand beauty of poor Margaret, as we see her with her forehead leaning onher slender hand, by the stirless spinning-wheel--the image of a strangeand ineffaceable sorrow, sat Rachel Lake.

Tamar might glide in and out; her mistress did not speak; the shadowsdeepened round her, but she did look up, nor call, in the old cheerfulaccents, for lights. No more roulades and ringing chords from thepiano--no more clear spirited tones of the lady's voice sounded throughthe low ceilings of Redman's Farm, and thrilled with a haunting melodythe deserted glen, wherein the birds had ended their vesper songs andgone to rest.

A step was heard at the threshold--it entered the hall; the door of thelittle chamber opened, and Stanley Lake entered, saying in a doubtful,almost timid way--

'It is I, Radie, come to thank you, and just to ask you how you do, andto say I'll never forget your kindness; upon my honour, I never can.'

Rachel shuddered as the door opened, and there was a ghastly sort ofexpectation in her look. Imperfectly as it was seen, he could understandit. She did not bid him welcome or even speak. There was a silence.

'Now, you're not angry with me, Radie dear; I venture to say I suffermore than you: and how could I have anticipated the strange turn thingshave taken? You know how it all came about, and you must see I'm notreally to blame, at least in intention, for all this miserable trouble;and even if I were, where's the good in angry feeling or reproaches now,don't you see, when I can't mend it? Come, Radie, let by-gones beby-gones. There's a good girl; won't you?'

'Aye, by-gones are by-gones; the past is, indeed, immutable, and thefuture is equally fixed, and more dreadful.'

'Come, Radie; a clever girl like you can make your own future.'

'And what do you want of me now?' she asked, with a fierce cold stare.

'But I did not say I wanted anything.'

'Of course you do, or I should not have seen you. Mark me though, I'll gono further in the long route of wickedness you seem to have marked outfor me. I'm sacrificed, it is true, but I won't renew my hourly horrors,and live under the rule of your diabolical selfishness.'

'Say what you will, but keep your temper--will you?' he answered, morelike his angry self. But he checked the rising devil within him, andchanged his tone; he did not want to quarrel--quite the reverse.

'I don't know really, Radie, why you should talk as you do. I don't wantyou to do anything--upon my honour I don't--only just to exercise yourcommon sense--and you have lots of sense, Radie. Don't you think peoplehave eyes to see, and ears and tongues in this part of the world? Don'tyou know very well, in a small place like this, they are all alive withcuriosity? and if you choose to make such a tragedy figure, and keepmoping and crying, and all that sort of thing, and look so _funeste_ andmiserable, you'll be sure to fix attention and set the whole d--d placespeculating and gossiping? and really, Radie, you're making mountains ofmole-hills. It is because you live so solitary here, and it _is_ such agloomy out-o'-the-way spot--so awfully dark and damp, nobody _could_ bewell here, and you really must change. It is the very temple ofblue-devilry, and I assure you if I lived as you do I'd cut my throatbefore a month--you _mustn't_. And old Tamar, you know, such a figure!The very priestess of despair. She gives me the horrors, I assure you,whenever I look at her; you must not keep her, she's of no earthly use,poor old thing; and, you know, Radie, we're not rich enough--you andI--to support other people. You must really place yourself morecheerfully, and I'll speak to Chelford about Tamar. There's a very niceplace--an asylum, or something, for old women--near--(Dollington he wasgoing to say, but the associations were not pleasant)--near some of thoselittle towns close to this, and he's a visitor, or governor, or whateverthey call it. It is really not fair to expect you or me to keep peoplelike that.'

'She has not cost you much hitherto, Stanley, and she will give you verylittle trouble hereafter. I won't part with Tamar.'

'She has not cost me much?' said Lake, whose temper was not of a kind topass by anything. 'No; of course, she has not. _I_ can't afford a guinea.You're poor enough; but in proportion to my expenses--a woman, of course,can live on less than half what a man can--I'm a great deal poorer thanyou; and I never said I gave her sixpence--did I? I have not got it togive, and I don't think she's fool enough to expect it; and, to say thetruth, I don't care. I only advise you. There are some cheerful littlecottages near the green, in Gylingden, and I venture to think, this isone of the very gloomiest and most uncomfortable places you could haveselected to live in.'

Rachel looked drearily toward the window and sighed--it was almost agroan.

'It was cheerful always till this frightful week changed everything. Oh!why, why, why did you ever come?' She threw back her pale face, bitingher lip, and even in that deepening gloom her small pearly teethglimmered white; and then she burst into sobs and an agony of tears.

Captain Lake knew something of feminine paroxysms. Rachel was not givento hysterics. He knew this burst of anguish was unaffected. He was ratherglad of it. When it was over he expected clearer weather and a calm. Sohe waited, saying now and then a soothing word or two.

'There--there--there, Radie--there's a good girl. Nevermind--there--there.' And between whiles his mind, which, in truth, had agood deal upon it, would wander and pursue its dismal and perplexedexplorations, to the unheard accompaniment of her sobs.

He went to the door, but it was not to call for water, or for old Tamar.On the contrary, it was to observe whether she or the girl was listening.But the house, though small, was built with thick partition walls, andsounds were well enclosed in the rooms to which they belonged.

With Rachel this weakness did not last long. It was a gust--violent--soonover; and the 'o'er-charged' heart and brain were relieved. And shepushed open the window, and stood for a moment in the chill air, andsighed, and whispered a word or two over the closing flowers of herlittle garden toward the darkening glen, and with another great sighclosed the window, and returned.

'Can I do anything, Radie? You're better now. I knew you would be. ShallI get some water from your room?'

'No, Stanley; no, thank you. I'm very well now,' she said, gently.

'Yes, I think so. I knew you'd be better.' And he patted her shoulderwith his soft hand; and then followed a short silence.

'I wish you were more pleasantly lodged, Radie; but we can speak of thatanother time.'

'Yes--you're right. This place is dreadful, and its darkness dreadful;but light is still more dreadful now, and I think I'll change; but, asyou say, there is time enough to think of all that.'

'Quite so--time enough. By-the-bye, Radie, you mentioned our old servant,whom my father thought so highly of--Jim Dutton--the other evening. I'vebeen thinking of him, do you know, and I should like to find him out. Hewas a very honest fellow, and attached, and a clever fellow, too, myfather thought; and _he_ was a good judge. Hadn't you a letter from hismother lately? You told me so, I think; and if it is not too muchtrouble, dear Radie, would you allow me to see it?'

Rachel opened her desk, and silently selected one of those clumsy andoriginal missives, directed in a staggering, round hand, on paper oddlyshaped and thick, such as mixes not naturally with the aristocraticfabric, on which crests and ciphers are impressed, and placed it in herbrother's hand.

'But you can't read it without light,' said Rachel.

'No; but there's no hurry. Does she say where she is staying, or herson?'

'Both, I think,' answered Rachel, languidly; 'but he'll never make aservant for you--he's a rough creature, she says, and was a groom. Youcan't remember him, nor I either.'

'Perhaps--very likely;' and he put the letter in his pocket.

'I was thinking, Rachel, you could advise me, if you would, you are soclever, you know.'

'Advise!' said Rachel, softly; but with a wild and bitter rage ringingunder it. 'I did advise when it was yet time to profit by advice. I boundyou even by a promise to take it, but you know how it ended. You don'twant my advice.'

'But really I do, Radie. I quite allow I was wrong--worse than wrong--butwhere is the use of attacking me now, when I'm in this dreadful fix? Itook a wrong step; and what I now have to do is to guard myself, ifpossible, from what I'm threatened with.'

She fancied she saw his pale face grow more bloodless, even in the shadowwhere he sat.

'I know you too well, Stanley. You want _no_ advice. You never tookadvice--you never will. Your desperate and ingrained perversity hasruined us both.'

'I wish you'd let me know my own mind. I say I do--(and he uttered anunpleasant exclamation). Do you think I'll leave matters to take theircourse, and sit down here to be destroyed? I'm no such idiot. I tell youI'll leave no stone unturned to save myself; and, in some measure, _you_too, Radie. You don't seem to comprehend the tremendous misfortune thatmenaces me--_us_--_you_ and me.'

And he cursed Mark Wylder with a gasp of hatred not easily expressed.

She winced at the name, and brushed her hand to her ear.

'Don't--don't--_don't_,' she said, vehemently.

'Well, what the devil do you mean by refusing to help me, even with ahint? I say--I _know_--all the odds are against us. It is sometimes along game; but unless I'm sharp, I can't escape what's coming. I_can't_--you can't--sooner or later. It is in motion already--d--him--it's coming, and you expect me to do everything alone.'

'I repeat it, Stanley,' said Rachel, with a fierce cynicism in her lowtones, 'you don't want advice; you have formed your plan, whatever it is,and that plan you will follow, and no other, though men and angels wereunited to dissuade you.'

There was a pause here, and a silence for a good many seconds.

'Well, perhaps, I _have_ formed an outline of a plan, and it strikes meas very well I have--for I don't think you are likely to take thattrouble. I only want to explain it, and get your advice, and any littleassistance you can give me; and surely that is not unreasonable?'

'I have learned one secret, and am exposed to one danger. I havetaken--to save you--it may be only a _respite_--one step, the remembranceof which is insupportable. But I was passive. I am fallen from light intodarkness. There ends my share in your confidence and your fortunes. Iwill know no more secrets--no more disgrace; do what you will, you shallnever use me again.'

'Suppose these heroics of yours, Miss Radie, should contribute to bringabout--to bring about the worst,' said Stanley, with a sneer, throughwhich his voice trembled.

'Let it come--my resolution is taken.'

Stanley walked to the window, and in his easy way, as he would across adrawing-room to stand by a piano, and he looked out upon the trees, whosetops stood motionless against the darkened sky, like masses of ruins.Then he came back as gently as he had gone, and stood beside his sister;she could not see his yellow eyes now as he stood with his back to thewindow.

'Well, Radie, dear--you have put your hand to the plough, and you sha'n'tturn back now.'

'What?'

'No--you sha'n't turn back now.'

'You seem, Sir, to fancy that I have no right to choose for myself,' saidMiss Rachel, spiritedly.

'Now, Radie, you must be reasonable--who have I to advise with?'

'Not me, Stanley--keep your plots and your secrets to yourself. In theguilty path you have opened for me one step more I will never tread.'